Black Consciousness Thoughts – Mariama Ndiaye

Author’s Note: Monday night in the midst of writing about Rastafarianism, with the protests in Baltimore clouding my mind, a flood of feels came to my attention and I had to let it out in the midst of poetry. Once I shared this with a few of my POC friends, I realized that these inner thoughts aren’t solely mine. I wrote this in one sitting, and have forsaken edits,  for I really just want you all to be in my head, and possibly many of your friends’ heads, for a minute.

I’m scared.

I’m scared that my anger will be diminished by this presence.

This ever-seeking future marked by abuse and hatred

As I try to climb up the ladder on the backs of my people

To reach success for the betterment of these peoples.

To be in this White Man’s world

as that White man’s girl.

To seek agency in the hands of my master. 

To outline my path within the walls of my womb.

Battered. Scratched up. Repairing this tomb.

Inside me.

To not see the White person as the venom to my blood 

To see rioters in the streets and to only think,

“The police got what’s coming to them”. 

I’m scared that i’m a sellout.

Only here to wipe the white man’s tears from his eyes as he proclaims his appreciation of my people

As he exclaims his love for my skin

As he claims his dismissal of my abysmal oppression.

The linkage of my history to this country is marked by no other than the history of my peoples being shipped across this land in compartments. 

Leaving us ripped apart from each other. 

Ripping away the identity of my brothers and sisters 

As I struggle to understand what it means to claim citizenship in an African body. 

The resiliency of my people hold true as I search through the streets to find my African Queens and Kings.

I don’t  seek understanding when I find hoodlums and hood rats. 

I understand. I am scared because I understand. 

I am scared because I fear for all of us.

I am scared because I am now in a space where no one fears for us.

For no one weeps in Paresky halls over the trials and tribulations of broken walls. 

Of broken ribs. Of broken wombs. Of broken hearts and open tombs.

Im scared. What am I doing here?

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